


À Mériteur

by lori (zakhad)



Series: Captain and Counselor [11]
Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-18
Updated: 2009-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-04 14:33:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zakhad/pseuds/lori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An intimate evening in the captain's quarters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	À Mériteur

_ O Beauty, out of many a cup  
You have made me drunk and wild  
Ever since I was a child,  
But when have I been sure as now  
That no bitterness can bend  
And no sorrow wholly bow  
One who loves you to the end?  
And though I must give my breath  
And my laughter all to death,  
And my eyes through which joy came,  
And my heart, a wavering flame;  
If all must leave me and go back  
Along a blind and fearful track  
So that you can make anew,  
Fusing with intenser fire,  
Something nearer your desire;  
If my soul must go alone  
Through a cold infinity,  
Or even if it vanish, too,  
Beauty, I have worshiped you. _

_ Let this single hour atone  
For the theft of all of me.  _

~ from ["August Moonrise", Sara Teasdale](http://www.geocities.com/%7Espanoudi/poems/teasd02.html#7)

~^~^~^~^~

Deanna sensed Jean-Luc's approach and went to stand in the middle of the main room, to be waiting when he come home. Into his quarters -- her mind substituted 'home' all the time now, then she'd catch herself and correct it. He stopped as the door closed behind him and looked around, then tossed the padd on the table as he advanced.

She felt the emotional shift from brooding pensiveness to the beginnings of curiosity as he tallied up the ways the atmosphere she'd created differed from the norm. Lights simulating candlelight, with the help of actual candles, tall white pillars arranged in trios on the end tables and on the desk and the dining table. The absence of anything edible, that might indicate she'd made dinner. Her deep blue robe, possibly covering either nudity or any number of modes of dress. The closed shutters blocking the view of the planet they were orbiting, and its sun, and any other feature of its solar system.

She knew it would take something out of the ordinary to provide a real distraction, a needed break from tension. This was a mission on which she as a counselor could do little more than observe -- the engineering staff was helping a Federation member world with repairs to their weather net, and there had been technical complications resulting in rising tempers. Due to the faltering satellite control grid, a devastating storm had blown up in the southern hemisphere and caused serious damage to one of their cities. At least most of the inhabitants were able to evacuate before the brunt of it struck. Now the government demanded explanations for how this could have happened while the *Enterprise* was supposedly fixing the net, and blustered about secession. Jean-Luc was negotiating for peace once more and fighting the prelate's adamant refusal to accept that chance had more to do with it. She'd gone with him earlier in the day and seen first-hand what he was up against -- the prelate had ignored her completely. No one but the 'man in charge' would do. She could sense Jean-Luc's usual immersion in the task at hand and knew he would hardly sleep, if he found no distraction from his thoughts.

If she could pull off this evening's 'entertainment', it would give temporary respite from the promise of further conflict tomorrow. It might even make her feel better about that dreadful incident on the holodeck last week, when she'd jumped to conclusions and embarrassed herself thoroughly.

He removed comm badge and pips as she watched. When he tilted his head, signifying piqued interest he knew he didn't have to voice, she unfastened his jacket, her movements leisurely and not at all seductive. Peeling it off and dropping it on the back of a chair, she then pulled up his shirt. She left it bunched under his arms, and he took it off.

"You're not hungry?" he asked.

She met his eyes and nodded, smiling as her eyes dropped to his bare chest. It made him snort derisively, but it amused him and stirred arousal.

"I'm sorry about what happened with the prelate earlier," he said, reaching for her. She backed out of his reach, the hem of the robe brushing the tops of her feet. Startled, he hesitated and questioned with his eyes.

"Do you trust me, Jean?"

"Absolutely." He meant it, in spite of the questioning he didn't voice.

Deanna smiled and stepped forward again. She traced a circle around his right nipple with a fingertip. "Excellent," she whispered, taking a handful of chest muscle and leaning to kiss him, full-mouthed and engaging his tongue with hers. She broke away when she sensed his arousal beginning to overtake his weariness. "I want to share something with you."

"What do you wish to share?" His lips moved against her cheek lightly. He wasn't hungry, just weighed down with the things he'd been thinking and doing, though that was lessening more all the time.

"I'll show you."

"Show me," he echoed.

"Yes. Before I do -- go get rid of the uniform and put on your robe. I'll start when you return. If it makes you too uncomfortable, ask me to stop. Otherwise, I'd like you to sit there, on the end of the couch nearest the bedroom door, and just. . . watch."

"Not participate?"

"I'm sure you'll know when you should do something," she murmured, nipping his earlobe then turning away to avoid distracting him from changing clothes.

Anticipation outstripped weariness, and gained ground as he took shirt and jacket and went to comply with her imposed dress code. She smiled and retrieved what she'd put on the floor out of sight under an end table.

When he returned and sat down, the beginnings of his physical arousal were making themselves known. Even if she couldn't see them for the gray robe, she knew the accompanying emotions well enough. She studied him a moment, lean and strong, backlit by the candles on the end table next to him -- she wanted him, and fed the longing.

"I want to show you what I would have done tonight, if you had stayed out late as you did last night," she murmured.

She was rewarded by the raising of his head, the barely-audible intake of air, and the inward spiral of curiosity to tension of an entirely different sort than what he'd brought home with him. A dozen heartbeats later, she sensed what she'd hoped for. His focus had shifted. He eagerly waited to see what happened next.

Deanna kept her breathing even and ran a calming exercise through her mind before sitting on the other end of the couch. She couldn't be sure he would appreciate what she dared on any level, because she doubted even he would know whether he would. She'd seen nothing so far to suggest that he might. But everyone had fantasies -- men were prone to entertaining the sort she was about to try, from all she'd heard. Some even did it in public. Even at receptions or official Starfleet functions, in the privacy of their minds while staring out a viewport or paying too much attention to a drink -- the people she could have embarrassed over the years! Though Jean-Luc hadn't been the sort to do it in public, she was certain he had indulged in his fair share of fantasizing in private.

Sitting upright, she focused on the flame of one of the candles on the table close at hand, making herself believe she was alone. That would be increasingly difficult but at the moment it was doable. She gathered the shirt to her nose -- his, purloined from the back of a chair that morning before it could be put in the recycler -- and inhaled the scent of him from it. Closing her eyes, she imagined his touch, so sure and yet so gentle, his hands traveling her body -- she let her body respond to the imagined caresses and fell against the back of the couch. With one hand she followed the paths she told her mind his fingers were traveling, then pinched as she imagined his mouth on a nipple. While she let her other hand drift over her thigh and parted her legs, she moaned his name.

It turned out to be easier than she had guessed -- she brought herself to climax and only remembered his presence as she paused to contemplate which of her toys she should continue with. She heard his breathing, ragged and barely audible, but out of rhythm with her own and therefore detectable. Peering through her lashes, she let her head roll toward him as if in repose, and saw that he sat stiffly on the edge of the couch, entirely caught up in her performance. She lay a moment longer, letting her sensual pleasure dwindle more than she would have liked, and sensed at last his reaction. Leisurely pulling off the shirt heightened his tension even more. So far, so good. As she dropped the shirt next to her and fluffed her hair out, feigning casualness, her audience of one seemed to have forgotten to breathe. The bustier must have been an unexpected surprise.

Settling her shoulders into the cushion, she picked up the red shirt again and brushed her cheek with it. "Jean-Luc," she whispered, closing her eyes tightly. "Meha'jalit sha naiv. . . ."

Her murmurings in Betazoid served two purposes. He didn't know enough of the language to guess at what she said, and the translator was disengaged within his quarters to aid in her learning French. And, speaking to her imaginary Jean-Luc kept her focus there, on the fantasy lover now kissing down her shoulder and leaving a trail of tingling skin in his wake. Responding to the dream doing everything she wanted kept her from remembering the reality not two meters away on the end of the couch.

After choosing one of the three items from the end table and inserting it, she left rational thought behind and focused entirely on sensation. The soft, pliable appliance lengthened and went rigid as she worked it in slow circles, stimulated by her movements and the moisture. Sinking lower on the couch, she rocked her hips, closing herself in slow rhythmic thrusts over the shaft. It did its part, moving into the pressure rather than away. The next climax was better than the last, the buildup slower and more delicious, as her imaginary lover nuzzled against her neck and whispered endearments while continuing his slow rhythm of deep, gentle movements. She whispered his name, burying her face in the shirt again. In her mind, he had that soft light in his eye that said love.

Light, moist fluttering along the inside of her right knee made her open her eyes. Jean-Luc, kneeling between her feet, kissing her thigh -- unable to sit passively by and watch any longer. Just as she'd counted on. He ran a hand down her shin and kissed her knee again, gaining confidence. The robe slipped partially off one shoulder; most of his chest was visible. In the soft light it was easy to think of this as a dream -- exactly the atmosphere she'd wanted.

He inched up her thigh, eyes closed, and kissed the soft skin just below her hip open-mouthed, tasting. His tongue moved against her, the slight roughness and pressure of it making her already-unsteady breathing falter. He lingered there, the tip of his nose pressing against her thigh and his breath flowing across her moist skin. Almost panting, he waited until he regained a minimum of composure.

{Tell me what would please you, déesse.}

The thought, accompanied as it was by a surge of raw desire, almost made her climax again.

She removed the toy -- a moist sucking noise resulted, and the familiar odor of her arousal became obvious. His eyes drifted up to her face, looking darker than usual in the dimness, catching the candlelight in them. It took a moment for her to adjust to the sight of him kneeling at her feet. Sliding to the edge of the cushion, she tipped her hips toward him suggestively.

A low, shuddering groan escaped her as he slid his hands beneath her, cupped her buttocks, and tasted her with a slow-moving tongue. Another moan when he sucked gently on labia and clitoris. She floated between her pleasure and his, allowing herself to become more responsive as she received feedback from him indicating such expression pleased him. His tongue exploring between light sucks occupied her until another slow climax shook her.

He left off the oral stimulation as she relaxed -- soreness in the knees, she recognized as he rose and sat on the edge of the couch next to her. She took up another item in her limited arsenal, a mid-range regenerator, and tended to the afflicted areas while he looked on with amusement and appreciation.

"It wasn't *that* bad," he complained softly.

The regenerator joined her toy to her left on the end table. She flipped the edges of the robe over his knees.

"And since when are you interested in my staying clothed?"

"I wouldn't want to get carried away too soon. There's so much I'd like to do. . . . Are you here, or not? What happens next depends on whether I'm still fantasizing or not," she whispered into his shoulder before tasting her way across the expanse of skin visible in the gap of the robe.

A moment passed slowly, then another. He was weighing the decision with more consideration than she would have guessed. And further surprised her by whispering, "No."

He'd recently expressed distaste for unreality. Now he answered 'not here' -- leaving her in control. Encouraging pretense. His emotions wrapped around her like a warm blanket. Too tempting to match and answer the yearning with her own -- she held herself in check and considered.

He wasn't here, he said. He wanted to see her fantasizing continue. He had hinted before that he expected she had fewer inhibitions than he; Betazoids in general usually expressed sexuality more openly than humans, and this human was more private than most. Nothing she'd done so far would upset other human lovers she'd had -- she'd been careful to keep it that way. She had anticipated participation from him, once the initial floor show had ended. Now she had to improvise.

"Then I must be imagining you," she murmured, trying to recover. "So if I wanted your hand on my shoulder. . . ."

Before she finished the sentence, his hand conformed to the curve of her shoulder, the warmth of his palm radiating through the shirt. Her lips met his. Brief, warm, mere contact of skin to skin -- he made a quiet sound that sounded like a plea, matching what he felt. But he sat unmoving, enduring her closeness.

"Do you love me?" She punctuated the question with another kiss.

"Yes," he breathed. "Oh, yes."

"Trust me?"

"Always." The whisper felt hot against her lips.

Slipping her fingers under the lapels of the robe, she pushed it off the rest of the way, and he followed the movement with his arms, letting the robe slide off and fall around him. She took a long look at him, naked, hands open and arms out as if beseeching her to come fill them. His erection bobbed slightly as if seconding the motion.

Her fantasy -- she wondered what she should do first. So many things to try, but only one of him, with a finite amount of energy. This should be something he could enjoy without hesitation or discomfort.

She met his gaze, smiling, letting the anticipation show and even licking her lips thoughtfully as she studied his body. Flat stomach, faint lines of what she'd heard humans call a washboard. He kept still, even when she ran a diffident hand down the small of his back and over his left buttock. She squeezed his thigh as if it were fruit under consideration at the market.

"I have a pretty good imagination." Running a hand down his jaw, she took note of the mildly-embarrassed smile before kissing it. Nudges along the undersides of his forearms persuaded them to go around her. She allowed no tongue before its time. Giggling, she offered her cheek and gripped his biceps, leaning into him. Brief frustration from him -- but as she pushed him against the back of the couch and ran

her hands over his chest, he went back to anticipation. She wrapped fingertips in chest hair and flicked his nipples with her thumbnails.

"Very good imagination," she purred, licking then sucking on the skin of his right shoulder. The unexpected sensation brought a gasp from him; his arms twitched, but stayed open where she'd left them.

It would be so easy to give in and let things happen, allow that curious feedback loop to form between them. But when caught up that way, she couldn't think so coherently. Too bad it was the only way they seemed able to have a two-way empathic connection. Worse, he couldn't remember what they did afterward. She wanted him to remember this. She wanted to please him, desperately. Sometimes she wondered if he ever had a thought for himself -- a month and a half she'd been living with him, and he seemed content to let her do as she pleased, asking little, demanding nothing.

That thought brought with it the realization that he probably went along with this solely to please her -- no doubt he would enjoy whatever she did, he always did, but completely giving up control and becoming an instrument of her fantasies? Submission wasn't his usual choice, in anything. Cooperation, definitely -- not this rigid control of himself, as he sat waiting to do her bidding.

How inconsiderate of him, to sabotage her this way. Turning, she swiped one cheek, then the other, along his chest. The distraction kept her from an outward reaction to the thought of him trying to meet a need he perceived, in the middle of her attempt to do something for him. She wanted to do something to forget the miserable holodeck simulation -- he'd laugh at her for trying to make up for it, but she felt the need to try. Explaining her attempt as such would negate any success. She had to succeed with this.

Another pass over his shoulders with her hands, and then she came up against him, navel to navel. A slow grind of hips to hips made him clench his fists and shudder; his cock felt warm and smooth against her abdomen. The hardness of it renewed her desire -- not to mention the sexual tension rising from him.

{Close your eyes. Let your hands do what they wish.}

The immediate reaction startled her. She caught her breath, waited for his arms to loosen again, which they did some seconds later, and moaned under the pressure of fingers kneading her thighs and pulling her against him.

Lips to his again, she took her time tasting him, pulling at his lip gently. Deanna nibbled down his neck, across his collar bones, painstakingly down his chest, tweaking chest hairs in her fingertips and his nipples in her teeth. She paid attention to the changes in his reactions, and consequently slowed her progress the lower she went. When she finally slid to the floor and knelt between his knees, she looked up at his face. Unexpectedly, his eyes met hers.

She was caught, and couldn't move. The ardor in his eyes, smoldering and intense, shouldn't have come as a surprise -- she could sense what accompanied it. The emotions were familiar, but not from him, and seeing him look at her this way could catch her off guard and stun her into witlessness.

"I thought this was *your* fantasy," he murmured.

The spoken word seemed to break the spell. She settled on her knees, dropping her hands -- she'd been about to slide them up his legs -- and keeping her gaze on his a moment longer, then conducting another survey of his body. If she spent too much time admiring him he became too self-conscious, but these brief looks flattered him.

"My fantasy," she echoed, then felt her smile growing. "But this is my fantasy. One of them."

"Watching me sit on the couch naked?"

"With a hard-on. How would you handle it, if I weren't here?"

It was almost too much -- it almost ended there. She'd been thinking of her fantasies, specifically two evenings when he was on duty late into the night and she'd indulged. The hint at a demonstration from him disturbed him. She almost ended it herself, sought the words to recant or redirect, but suddenly he slid sideways and put his feet up, laying on his back on the couch looking at the ceiling. The change of response startled her to silence.

"Turnabout," he muttered. Touching her cheek, he gave her another intense, heated look. "You want to watch?"

She called upon all her self-control to remain still and not allow her face to give away how this affected her. The wavering candlelight was fortunate; maybe her face didn't look as red as it felt. Heat started in her, down low, and she could hardly stay seated.

"If it would be uncomfortable for you -- "

"I'm not here."

"It wasn't my intent to go this far," she whispered. "I didn't think you would say no. I thought. . . ."

"You thought I wouldn't do this for you?" He rolled on one shoulder, pushing himself up and touching her face. "You're upset about this."

Distressed, it was true -- on top of that, her concerted effort to be open and responsive to the slightest change in his mood meant his concern and frustration only increased the distress. "I'm sorry."

Apologizing only angered him. It spiked and abated rapidly, however. "Why are you upset?"

"I thought you wouldn't go along with it."

"You're telling me," he began, sitting up again, "that you have no inhibitions about being an exhibitionist, but watching makes you uncomfortable?"

"Not exactly. I wanted to do something to give you a respite from the pressure you've been under, something that would distract -- I thought you would find it arousing and unexpected enough to make you forget everything else for a little while. I didn't realize. . . ."

He could turn a mood in a heartbeat -- now he was trying not to laugh. She'd done it again. Instead of reacting as she had on the holodeck and running from the room, she caught her dismay with a hand across her mouth and looked away, searching the floor as if seeking a safe place to put her eyes.

And again, he turned his mood, and the gentle brush of his palm along her cheek broke her control to pieces. She turned away, hands over her face. It didn't help that he immediately felt guilty, again.

"Why are you trying so hard?"

The soft question arrested her self-recriminations. "I have to."

A fingertip down her spine made her shiver. "You don't have to -- you're quite distracting just as you are, cygne. Although I'll certainly testify to the effectiveness of your initial distraction -- I don't think I inhaled more than twice, by the time you came with the toy I was actually dizzy. You *know* how I feel about you. Why did you think you had to. . . . Have I been that oblivious to you? Have you been giving hints all week that I haven't paid attention to?"

Her mind had raced ahead, taking apart her own motivations, and returned to the conversation to counter his guilt, turning and rising to sit next to him again. "You've been busy all week. I haven't wanted to distract you until today -- when you're in the middle of something like this you don't sleep well, as a general rule, and you need sleep."

"And since I have a tendency to fall into a coma afterward you thought -- and here I go again, ruining your plans."

She took his hand in hers, flattening it between her palms. "You've been a victim of my expectations, Jean-Luc. If you weren't so heartbreakingly-considerate this wouldn't have happened. Here I am, trying to find ways to please you, and you aren't selfish enough to give me any hints."

He laughed, cutting it short and putting the back of his hand to his mouth briefly. His right hand slipped out of her grasp and covered her hands. "I'm selfish, all right. Don't tell me I'm not."

"But -- "

"I can see I'm being typically uncommunicative, however. I suppose I should quit relying on your ability to sense how I feel and tell you once in a while."

"Tell me?"

"Remind you. I'm certain you know how distracted I can get when you're around. I have to wait until we're off duty to look at you. I have the most beautiful woman on the ship sleeping in my bed and half-killing herself to make me happy. One of these days I'll wake up. And then I'll roll right over and go back to sleep, and come looking for you."

Shock almost brought a blurted protest, but as her eyes came up, it became apparent that he was back to thinking lascivious thoughts and smiling at her like a cat with a rodent under its paw. The hand that had previously held hers somehow had her by the arm and pulled her closer.

"It wouldn't be the first time, you know. If you still want to watch." The light scrape of his thumbnail down the inside of her arm made her shiver.

"Not the first. . . ."

He kissed her hair, then whispered in her ear, his breath hot on her skin. "That first night we talked, when we went to the holodeck and I showed you the treehouse? I couldn't get you out of my head. I haven't been successful since then, either -- it's a good thing you took pity on me and climbed right into my bed, I have a deficient imagination. Though I suppose I wouldn't have known that unless -- my god, have I actually made you blush?"

"Dinner," she whispered, turning away. He caught her, putting his arm around her to keep her sitting with him.

"I'd much rather understand why suddenly you've turned into whatever it is you've become. How did I manage to do this? Whatever it is, I want to stop, so that confident woman I fell in love with will come back."

She forced her eyes around. Most of his face lay in shadow, as the candles behind him threw him in silhouette and she eclipsed the ones behind her. His concern and love washed over her. And, in what little light there was, she could see one of his eyes, full of that heat that still seized her tongue and stole her composure.

"I'm sorry," she whispered again. "I'm not used to this."

He said nothing, but the shift from concern to more concern, and mild confusion, was enough to tell her he wanted specifics.

"I didn't expect so much persistent consideration from you. I want to. . . deserve you."

She forgot the rest of what she wanted to say. Caught up in dismay at the spinning, sinking sensation of his emotions, she stared, waiting for a cue from him, watching his frozen expression. Too much was going on -- she couldn't tell any more what he might be thinking; his feelings shifted too quickly, morphing from shock to anger to frustration and then an odd mixture with hints of disbelief and fear.

He left her sitting there, punched the lights off using the panel on the desk, and walked around blowing out candles. She watched, incredulous, still trying to decipher what was going on in him. In the darkness she could sense his presence like a bonfire, flaring hot across her mind --

He interrupted her stunned musings by taking her hand and pulling her off the couch. While he led her into the bedroom, it registered that he had found her -- without fumbling or feelings his way -- in the pitch blackness.

He ordered the lights up half, and it became clear why he'd used the control in the other room. His voice sounded ragged, influenced by the internal battle raging. Turning, he put his arms around her, burying his face in her hair.

Again, she recognized what she hadn't seen right away. He was trying not to cry. She hadn't recognized that unique blend of emotions because, for him, it was a rare occasion. Several things came clear at long last. She put her arms around his waist, avoiding anything more affectionate that might break his control, and waited for him to settle down.

Eventually he did. Then, suddenly, a spike of ire and he had her by the shoulders. "Don't ever say anything like that again," he exclaimed. "Don't you dare say that to me!"

"I won't," she replied meekly. As she tried to return to her original explanations, his grip tightened.

"Don't apologize to me again, either."

"Yes, sir."

"Damn!" He stood back, grinding the heel of a hand in an eye socket. Took a deep breath. "I have to stop that -- I shouldn't have snapped at you. But Dee, this -- how can you not understand, you know how much I love you, how happy you make me -- it's the other way that troubles me, I can't always tell. . . . But you showed me. You went out of your way, set all this up, demonstrated exactly how you feel -- I'm the one who should be sorry, cygne, not you. You have nothing to apologize for. I didn't realize how preoccupied I'd become with this mission, how many nights I'd stayed out late -- and you always wake up and you're always looking after my needs, so if anyone doesn't deserve. . . . What are you doing?"

Hiding as much of her face behind her hand as possible so he wouldn't see the tear that'd escaped, but she said, "Feeling extremely stupid, thank you. That wasn't what I was doing at all. I didn't realize what *other* things you might infer from it. I told you, I was only trying to provide a distraction from stress I knew you felt. I'm so selfish all I could think about was just one night of uninterrupted sleep, without you tossing and turning and sighing. . . ." The dubious look he was giving her stopped her short.

"Pitiful liar, you. Stop trying to muddy things -- selfish is the last thing anyone could say about you."

She palmed her forehead. "Can we just write this off to mutual hopelessness?"

"Can I do what I originally came home to do?" The sudden shift came again -- she knew what he meant and chose intentional obliviousness.

"Yes, of course. What would you like for din -- "

He stopped her abruptly with a fondle and a kiss. His arms went around her, and his fingers fumbled with the bustier.

{You came home to tear my clothes off?}

{I needed the distraction from all that stress. Now that I've had your distraction, I'm more than ready for mine.}

She let him fumble with the fasteners and back her over to the bed. "You were coming to me for a distraction," she said. The bustier came away in his hands. She sat so suddenly she bounced. Making a face, she dragged the covers down -- certain sensitive regions *really* didn't like the roughness of standard issue bedcovers.

"You made me glad that I did. I want to know what I have to do to put that look on your face again." He tossed back the covers and got in with her, putting his hand on her hip and leaning to look her in the eye expectantly.

"You mean, what I imagined you doing?"

"Oh, yes," he whispered, the lights appearing in his intense eyes. She stared into them, lost for a moment, then brushed the back of his hand with her fingertips.

"That should be easy. I was remembering what you did two weeks ago, when we were on the holodeck, in Paris. When you were showing me the Eiffel Tower and you pushed me up on that railing?"

"That's all? I don't remember you looking like that."

"You were too busy to notice, probably."

The beginnings of a frown wrinkled his brow. "Really."

She scraped her nails down his chest, twining his hair around her forefinger. "You know, you mentioned that first night, after the discussion in the treehouse -- I didn't sense anything of you that night after we parted ways. I had no idea what you were doing."

"You didn't?"

"I didn't want to know. I was afraid of knowing. So I got my little toy, collapsed in a hot bath, and entertained myself by imagining the taste of your skin."

She had his rapt attention again. Sidling to him and pushing him on his back, she settled on her folded arms on his chest and continued her hair-twining with the addition of an occasional suckling of a nipple. One of his hands found its way to her head, his fingers pushing through her hair. The other came to rest in the small of her back.

"I also thought about how warm your skin must be," she continued, letting her voice go husky. "How it would feel when damp, after. . . exertion. How it would be to feel your hands all over my body. Your mouth, kissing the soft skin in places that don't usually feel kisses, your breath. . . ."

She blew on the indentation where his collar bones met, followed it with a touch of her tongue-tip, and noted the way his hands tightened.

"I thought about how you would smell when aroused," she said, inching down his body. "What *this* would be like."

She flicked the tip of his cock with her tongue. Studying him with a smile, she waited for another cue and got it -- a subtle shift of desire as he finished setting aside the disbelief that she'd really thought about Paris. She turned slightly so she could watch him out of the corner of her eye as she licked the salty bead gathering at the tip and worked her mouth over his cock.

He'd guessed once she lived this sort of thing vicariously. She doubted she would have enjoyed it nearly so much if she couldn't -- deep-throating wasn't for everyone, especially for those with a touchy gag reflex. It helped too that she could almost predict sudden movements and respond as they were made.

He moved restlessly, making that pleased sound in the back of his throat. A quick rake of her nail up the inside of his thigh made him shudder and push deeper. If she kept up the slow movements of her tongue and mouth, he'd come too soon. All the stimulation earlier had him primed. His hand found her head again, but when she pulled away he didn't try to keep her there.

Tracing patterns down his leg, she watched him watch her through his lashes, his expression and his emotions such that she felt hot and flushed, and her own pulse quickened. She palmed his balls, tucking her fingers under, gently hefting them. At the unexpected scrape of a nail along the underside, he inhaled sharply.

"Do you have any fantasies, Jean-Luc?"

He guffawed soundlessly and ran his palm over his head. "Oh. . . hm. If you really. . . ."

He trailed off as she moved to lie next to him. Placing a hand flat on his chest, she ran her toes down his calf and paid rapt attention to his face.

"I don't have them anymore," he said at last, rolling toward her. "I have you."

No time to react to that sentiment. She was glad of it, returning the kiss and wrapping her hand over the back of his neck. He nibbled down her throat, and only when his teeth closed on a nipple did she realize he was mirroring what she'd done to herself earlier, and felt some small amusement for it. She hummed pleasure and moved against him at penetration, voicing her reactions.

The feedback loop didn't happen. She was too preoccupied, she guessed, with his pleasure -- too focused on analyzing his reactions to what she did and doing something else to heighten sensations he enjoyed. He lost himself in it at last, thrusting with abandon to climax and falling across her. His fingers tight in her hair, he seemed determined to crawl in her skin with her; the bridge of his nose against her jaw, he fought to catch his breath as it sawed in and out his open mouth roughly.

"God," he gasped at length. "My. . . god, that was. . . ."

Her touch on the back of his neck brought more shivering than usual. The rhythm of his breathing slowed at last. She knew, finally, that if nothing happened to interrupt, he would fall asleep that way, all his weight on her and his face buried in her hair. She let him lay there, playing with his hair idly, sensing the reverberations of pleasure in him and savoring the slow unraveling of all remaining tension in him.

"I love you," he whispered, half-asleep and falling fast. "Cygne. . . belle bien-aimeé, je t'aime. Deésse. . . ."

He rolled on his side, shifting most of his weight from her but leaving an arm and leg draped over her. She dragged the covers within easy reach with her toes then tucked them around them. Listening to him breath, she watched his face relax, the faint traces of a smile lingering on his lips. His hand felt heavy on her breast. Her own breathing evened out at last, and as the flush of lovemaking died away, the air in the room felt cold on her face.

She tended to look first at what was within a person. Being able to sense it clearly helped her see around the physical -- telepaths were similar in that regard. But here, while he drifted through the first stages of sleep, emotions ebbed away and let her see him without empathic feedback, and she found him equally pleasing to look at. Many of the worry lines fell from him. The contented smile she'd put there helped.

"I love you," she murmured.

Usually he didn't react, but he moved without waking, just enough to nose deeper into her hair. She admired him in silence for a while, her own eyelids starting to feel heavy. The slight adjustments of his fingers, a twitch of a muscle, finally the first toss -- on his back he began to snore lightly, the arm he'd had across her falling across his chest. He murmured something she didn't catch.

"What?" she replied sleepily. Then she realized, rising from the half-awake state she'd fallen into, that he still slept soundly and he was sleep-talking.

"Dee. . . ." He said it louder, but still mumbled.

"Yes?" Maybe this would be fun.

"Mmm. . . ." She sensed the change -- he was dreaming, and something bad was going on. Then just as suddenly it changed again. "Don. . . leaf," he gasped.

"I'm right here. It's all right."

He rolled and landed across her heavily. It would have awakened her, if she'd been asleep. "Can't. . . can't. Don't."

She played with his hair as she sometimes did when he was awake. It soothed him a little. "I won't," she whispered.

"Prom. . . ."

"I promise. I won't. Ssh, it's all right."

His cheek rested heavy on her shoulder. A touch of moisture shocked her -- a tear? Or was he drooling? "Mirif," he gasped, with more air than voice.

Either a French word or gibberish, probably the latter. He was upset. "I'm here. I won't leave."

Emotion spiked, and he pushed himself up and stared down at her, coming awake with his usual abruptness. It took him a few moments to sort through what had happened. He sighed and flopped on his back, rubbing his eyes. "Sorry."

"It's all right to dream. I'm sorry you woke up. Go back to sleep. Computer, lights off."

He couldn't sleep, though, and lay in the darkness thinking -- it felt like murmuring she could barely hear. His hand found hers beneath the covers; she closed her fingers around his thumb, smiling, enjoying the light affectionate contact. She knew his other hand was under his head, with his elbow sticking out. His thinking-in-bed pose.

It surprised her when, quite suddenly, he began to speak. It became apparent from the cadence that he was quoting, probably poetry.

"Because thou hast the power and own'st the grace, To look through and behind this mask of me (Against which years have beat thus blanchingly With their rains), and behold my soul's true face, The dim and weary witness of life's race, Because thou hast the faith and love to see, Through that same soul's distracting lethargy, The patient angel waiting for a place In the new Heavens,--because nor sin nor woe, Nor God's infliction, nor death's neighborhood, Nor all which others viewing turn to go, Nor all of which makes me tired of all, self-viewed,-- Nothing repels thee,...Dearest, teach me so To pour out gratitude, as thou dost, good!"

So that had been what he thought about. She puzzled through the somewhat archaic language. "Poetry," she guessed.

"Elizabeth Barrett Browning. You would like her work."

"Tomorrow. Do I have to get a tranquilizer?"

"Come over here and put your belle tête on my shoulder, that'll be good enough."

She obeyed, and his arm went around her as she settled. "Belle is the feminine form of beautiful."

"Oui."

"Beau is masculine. So you would be beau bien-aimé."

"If I were beau."

"You just finished telling me that I have the ability to look through and behind the mask to see you as you are. I just looked you up and down and sampled your wares -- beau. Don't fight with me or I'll start listing admirers."

It left him in that state she labeled 'fondly disgruntled.' Mild dismay at her naming him handsome, and pleasure, and affection. The trivial exchange served to train his thoughts on something other than whatever his dream had been about, at least.

She woke to the soft tone of the computer sounding a wake-up call. His wake-up call. Usually, it never got to do it -- usually he was up before the computer had to announce the time, and because of that it never did. He stirred, but rather than get up, he fumbled at the panel beside the bed, turned off the signal, and reached for her. She found her cheek brushing his shoulder as he kissed her hair.

"Jean?" She cleared her throat -- that would teach her to say a word before she finished waking up, she sounded like a sleepy frog.

He pulled her over as he settled on his back, humming a little and settling her on his chest. Predictably, Captain Morning Person had something in mind. One of his hands announced it pretty plainly, groping its way down her back to close on her upper thigh.

"If you're going to make yourself late I'll have to call the -- "

"Dee, sshh, I won't be late. There's plenty of time."

"You didn't eat last night. You should have breakfast."

"In a minute."

"It's going to take you more than -- "

"Shut up, dammit!"

She giggled at the grouchy exclamation, as she usually did when he swore at her toothlessly. "Especially if you do that again. Not exactly the way to seduce a woman, you know."

"Mmm, but I happen to know you think I'm irresistible. God knows why, but I've never been one to judge. Patin?"

She kissed him, with tongue as requested, but made it brief and crawled over him to get out of bed, completely aware of the effect it had on him. "Captain Morning Breath."

"Your fault."

"Be that as it may. . . ." She returned from a brief forage in the bathroom and brandished mouthwash like a fencing foil.

"Your form's all wrong," he exclaimed, swinging his legs out of bed. When he snatched at it, she yanked it out of reach and raced back to the bathroom. If he was going to be playful, she'd play.

The pursuit ended in the shower, where they took turns rinsing mouths and kissed under the sonics. He dressed at a leisurely pace, humming to himself, while she went about breakfast and threw on a robe before sitting down with him to eat. As usual, little was said. She thought about the night before, seeing him in so many states of undress and so many moods, comparing them to the officer he was turning into as his attention shifted to the day's activities.

"Beau capitaine," she murmured, drawing an irritated look from him. It faded to an affectionate smile.

"The prelate will probably be just as stubborn today as yesterday," he commented, as if continuing a conversation.

"This time, when you beam down, don't greet his wife."

The last bit of croissant hovered short of his lips as he raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"Just a hunch. Try it. I know you think it's rude not to acknowledge her presence, but I think you'll notice a change in the prelate's behavior. And if it makes a difference, thank him for being courteous enough to ignore me, and apologize for your previous indiscretions."

Both eyebrows rose higher. "You think so?"

"They aren't human. They may be in the database, there may be an extensive listing of their customs and behaviors, but the database wasn't any help in aiding me at the Academy -- nothing prepared me for the things I learned about humans there."

He considered it for a few moments, eyes distant. "His wife follows him everywhere and never says a word. And you didn't, after greeting the prelate. . . . Why didn't you tell me yesterday?"

"It would have served little purpose -- I couldn't rescue yesterday's encounter, the damage was already done when you spoke to his wife. I assume you're going down after checking with Geordi. I'll meet you in the transporter room in twenty minutes. If their custom is to have mates follow them everywhere, perhaps it would be politic to follow it?"

He smiled, washed down the last of breakfast with coffee, and headed for the door, stopping long enough to kiss her cheek and fondle a breast. She heard him humming on the way and then the door closed behind him, cutting it off.

Her hands took care of putting on the uniform while she thought about last night, then about yesterday when the prelate's wife reacted to Jean-Luc's benign greeting with a measuring look, and the prelate with anger. And then the prelate had stared at her when she'd spoken. The computer records indicated that the Vrivians had a highly-structured society, roles defined very clearly by gender, and that offworlders should have as little to do with the opposite sex as possible -- Jean-Luc had defined 'as little as possible' as exchanging greetings and nothing more. Deanna suspected, now that she knew how they reacted, that the Vrivians considered any male-female interaction foreplay.

Which had annoyed her. The prelate's wife, whose name Deanna couldn't pronounce and didn't intend to try, had not been uninterested in Jean-Luc. Deanna had come up with the idea of distracting Jean-Luc as she had, but wondered now if it hadn't been some instinctual possessiveness coming to the fore.

No. More like insecurity. She had wanted to please him, almost desperately, as if trying to reassure herself that she could. And why she felt she had to do that hadn't been clear to her until he had come to hold her while holding back the tears he wouldn't shed.

She had become invested in keeping him happy, just as she'd done in every other relationship she'd had. Self-preservation. Unless she had a way of retreating completely from her partner without offending him, his emotions would affect her. She could tolerate just so much preoccupied distance, then she'd start thinking of ways to get his attention off whatever matter merited broodiness. It had happened before, with the only other relatively-long-term relationship she'd had aboard the *Enterprise* -- with the only man who could find reasons to brood before he even got out the door in the morning.

Before she could make the mistake of thinking overlong about Worf, she turned her thoughts back to the present. At least she hadn't reacted by getting snappish -- at least she'd channeled that frustration with Jean-Luc's preoccupation into something more mutually satisfying than a game of 'find the real reason for the mood.' Living with someone seemed to affect her this way -- she relaxed, let her guard down, and found herself unconsciously reacting to her partner's emotional state, sometimes compensating for it. The curse of the empath.

Curse and blessing, she amended, smiling at her reflection in the mirror as she put her pips in her collar. Last night he had slept well, once he'd gotten to sleep -- his energy that morning had proved it.

She glanced at the picture she'd managed to get of them, where it lay concealed in her top drawer. One of several she'd gotten with an imager left on a table and programmed for time-delay photography. Jean-Luc sitting next to her on the bed, both of them still in uniform, matching sly, amused expressions on their faces as they leaned away from each other -- it was the only one she'd gotten of him that captured, at least in part, the heat in his eyes when he looked at her as a man, not an officer. She'd just made a pun and right after the picture he'd thrown his arms around her and retaliated with a kiss.

Deanna covered the picture with her hairbrush again, finished fastening her hair clip, and shut the drawer. She made the bed quickly, tossed the dishes in the recycler, and hurried out. In the transporter room, Jean-Luc waited with Geordi, Mendez, and a handful of engineering staff.

"Counselor," the captain said officiously.

"Sir," she replied, stepping up on the transporter pad. Hands behind her back, she waited, standing within arm's reach of him, the comforting, familiar presence of Captain Picard on the job settling her into her official persona.

This was the life she wanted most. This, and nothing else. As they materialized in the open area next to the Vrivian government offices, a stark white single-floor building, she turned with the group to await the approach of the prelate, his wife, and the usual accompanying assistants. Jean-Luc went forward; she hung back, and was subjected to a few glances from the rest of the away team. The usual reaction to the 'captain's woman.'

"He looks like he's in a lot better mood than he was yesterday," Geordi muttered.

"Because he knows how to deal with the prelate now," she murmured, glancing at the engineer. Geordi smirked; he wasn't fooled. But he turned away to watch the captain greet the prelate, and not greet the prelate's wife, and Deanna allowed a slight smile.

The group went forward, the engineers moving off with the assistants, leaving the captain and counselor to follow the prelate and his wife into the building. Jean-Luc glanced at her, smiling tight-lipped. {You were right. Thank you.}

{Just doing my duty, Captain. As always.}

A brief moment of amusement and slyness flitted across Jean-Luc's face before the captain returned and followed the prelate across the threshold into the interior. Wrinkling her nose, Deanna steadied herself with the thought that good and loyal officers would follow their captain into hell if necessary, and that she'd done so before, and that alien buildings that stunk like iodine-soaked fish guts weren't nearly so bad as the Borg.

She suspected, however, that they wouldn't have an appetite that night, either.

No matter. There were other things she could do with him -- or watch him do, since he'd been so generous as to offer. As he was so fond of quoting from his service record, Jean-Luc Picard was indeed trainable.

Beau capitaine.

______________________________

_The poetry JLP quotes is #34 of the Sonnets from the Portegeuse by Elizabeth Barrett Browning._

__

_French words (I don't speak it, so bear with me and/or correct me if I'm wrong):_

_À Mériteur - to deserve, to be deserving of_

_bien-aimé, bien-aimée -- masculine and feminine forms meaning 'beloved'_

_belle tête - beautiful head_

_je t'aime -- I love you_

_deésse -- goddess _


End file.
